I can see Delaney's jaw clench and she tugs at the edges of her shirt, smoothing it. "What happened between us was years ago," she says, her voice hard. "It was a lifetime ago."
What happened between us. She doesn't say the actual words. She doesn't describe the kiss that started everything that summer, the kiss that sent both of us spiraling out of control, reckless in our pursuit of each other, until it came to a crashing halt just before anything went too far. She fails to mention the stolen kisses when we were left alone, the frenzied groping that carried the promise of more. More that never happened.
And I've never forgotten about it.
"Right," I say. "And you've never thought about any of it in the past four years?"
She waits a moment too long to respond. "I don't think about it at all."
"Liar," I say.
"If you think I came down here to get some of your...tool..." Her eyes drop down to my waist, then lower. "You'd be wrong."
"You tell me why you walked your fine little ass down here then."
"I came back to Dallas to work, Gaige," she says. "That's it. And that's why I came down here tonight. To say I want things to be professional."
"Professional," I say.
Delaney nods. I want to kiss that serious expression right the hell off her face. "Appropriate," she says.
"Appropriate," I echo.
I definitely don't do appropriate, and I'm sure as fuck not doing appropriate with Delaney Marlowe. In fact, getting under Delaney's skin and making her behave inappropriately just might be the kind of cure for boredom I've been looking for.
CHAPTER SIX
Kate
It's my first day of work at my father's company. My first real job. And I couldn't be more uncomfortable if I tried, as I survey my office. Sure, it's no bigger than a closet, but it's an office. With a damn window. The window might overlook the parking lot, but it's still a window. Most new college graduates would be absolutely thrilled to have a setup like this, but not me.
I should be in a cubicle, but the fact that I'm my father's daughter has gotten me an office with walls and everything. I make a mental note to tell him later that I should be moved. People are already going to hate me enough, just because it's my father's company.
I can already tell it's a huge problem by the way my brand new boss Chelsea has treated me since I walked in the door this morning, her voice practically dripping with contempt when I introduced myself. Chelsea is Gaige's domestic account manager, and I instantly know she hates me.
When I hear the knock on the door, I groan inwardly, steeling myself for her. "Come in."
It's not Chelsea. It's Gaige.
Gaige walking through the door on my first day is fucking perfect. Especially after I just saw him last night, when he was pissed off and angry and...sexy, the way he pulled me close to him, his hand wrapped around my fingers, practically threatening to kiss me.
No. I refuse to even let my thoughts go there. The past is the past. When you're eighteen years old, on your way to finally throw caution to the wind and sleep with the guy you like more than anything else in the world and you're intercepted by a girl he may or may not be screwing, that makes you feel differently about him.
Of course, it was damn hard to ignore how I felt about him last night, the way my heart raced and my breath caught in my throat when he pulled me toward him. Gaige had the same effect on me back then. All along, I've discounted my memories of that summer, attributing my desire for Gaige to the fact that we were eighteen and our hormones were crazy, but here I am, standing in front of him again, and it’s like nothing has changed. He still irritates the shit out of me. And sends desire ricocheting through my body.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, crossing the room to shut the office door behind him. "It's my first day. I don't need any grief from you, Gaige."
"Come on, Delaney," he says. "Do you really think that poorly of me? I came bearing a first-day-at-the-office gift and coffee."
It's not even nine in the morning. I can't decide if I'm annoyed that he's in my office or pleased that he dragged himself out of bed to show up here. He's wearing a bright pink t-shirt that somehow has the opposite effect you'd expect from a pink shirt, making him look even more masculine than he did last night, which seems to be a ridiculously unfair trick the universe is playing. The soft cotton fabric grazes over his body, and I can see the outline of his chest muscles underneath. I have to force my eyes away, anywhere else but on his chest.
He has a box tucked under his arm, wrapped in royal blue paper and tied with a silver bow, and a coffee cup in each hand. He hands me one of the cups, and I take it apprehensively. "What's all this?" I ask.
"It's a peace offering," he says. "Three creams, two sugars."